Anxiety

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

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• From Apprenticed to Venus: My Secret Life with Anaïs Nin (2017)

  WHEN THE PROP PLANE CARRYING Hugo bumped to a stop on the beach landing strip, Anaïs trudged through the sand to greet him. A cabdriver waited to take them directly to the American Hotel. It was luxurious compared to the El Mirador, where gossiping maids and the patron had seen her with Rupert. She intended to tell Hugo she wanted a divorce as soon as they were alone in their penthouse suite. After he’d tipped the hotel porters and appreciated the panoramic view of the ocean from fourteen floors above, he said soberly, “You’ve heard the news that Gandhi was assassinated?” “Yes, I’m grieving with the world.” They communed for a moment in silence, cooled by the hotel air-conditioning, he sitting on the king-sized bed, she perched on a settee covered with a tropical print, mourning the loss of a hero who had embodied their shared ideals. “Well, the world goes on,” Hugo said softly. “I brought three little surprises that should cheer you, dear. I hope you like them.” Poor Hugo, she thought, I’m sure I’ll like them more than you will like my surprise. He pulled a gift-wrapped box from his leather satchel. She could tell by its size and shape what was inside: Chanel 22, Coco Chanel’s personal scent that the famous designer allowed only a few select customers to buy. Receiving this almost illicit nectar always gave Anaïs a thrill but accepting it did not make her announcement of wanting a divorce easier. He leaned back, hands clasped behind his head, and told her his second surprise. “I resigned from the bank. I’m a free man!” He grinned. To her increasing alarm, he explained that the conflict between his banker self and his artist self had reached a crisis and that with his psychoanalyst’s help he’d decided to become, as she, a full-time artist. “But what about money?” Anaïs gasped. “I took an early payout on my pension.” “No!” Her hands gripped her face. “Your pension was there to take care of us in old age,” she moaned. “Anaïs, it’s fine. I’ve paid off our debts and we still have money to invest.” “Invest!” “Dearest, that’s what I do for other people. I can do it for us. Leave that part to me.” How she hated his patronizing tone. “This affects us both!” she cried. A divorce attorney she had once consulted in New York had told her that half of Hugo’s pension would be hers if they separated. Now what could she expect? They had always rented and owned no property, except for the rat-infested shack she’d recently purchased. A terrifying thought seized her. She had driven him to this disastrous act. Hugo had given up his pension in order to keep her from divorcing him. He had put her in checkmate. He knows. He’s always known I was cheating, she realized. He’s telling me that it was the bargain he made, offering me silence, in order to hold onto me.

• From Moral Man and Immoral Society: A Study in Ethics and Politics (1932)

  Lacking moral and rational resources to organise its life, without resort to coercion, except in the most immediate and intimate social groups, men remain the victims of the individuals, classes and nations by whose force a momentary coerced unity is achieved, and further conflicts are as certainly created. The fact that the coercive factor in society is both necessary and dangerous seriously complicates the whole task of securing both peace and justice. History is a long tale of abortive efforts toward the desired end of social cohesion and justice in which failure was usually due either to the effort to eliminate the factor of force entirely or to an undue reliance upon it. Complete reliance upon it means that new tyrants usurp the places of eminence from which more traditional monarchs are cast down. Tolstoian pacifists and other advocates of non-resistance, noting the evils which force introduces into society, give themselves to the vain illusion that it can be completely eliminated, and society organised upon the basis of anarchistic principles. Their conviction is an illusion, because there are definite limits of moral goodwill and social intelligence beyond which even the most vital religion and the most astute educational programme will not carry a social group, whatever may be possible for individuals in an intimate society. The problem which society faces is clearly one of reducing force by increasing the factors which make for a moral and rational adjustment of life to life; of bringing such force as is still necessary under responsibility of the whole of society; of destroying the kind of power which cannot be made socially responsible (the power which resides in economic ownership for instance); and of bringing forces of moral self-restraint to bear upon types of power which can never be brought completely under social control. Every one of these methods has its definite limitations. Society will probably never be sufficiently intelligent to bring all power under its control. The stupidity of the average man will permit the oligarch, whether economic or political, to hide his real purposes from the scrutiny of his fellows and to withdraw his activities from effective control. Since it is impossible to count on enough moral goodwill among those who possess irresponsible power to sacrifice it for the good of the whole, it must be destroyed by coercive methods and these will always run the peril of introducing new forms of injustice in place of those abolished. There is, for instance, as yet no clear proof that the power of economic overlords can be destroyed by means less rigorous than communism has employed; but there is also no proof that communistic oligarchs, once the idealistic passion of a revolutionary period is spent, will be very preferable to the capitalistic oligarchs, whom they are to displace.

• From Apprenticed to Venus: My Secret Life with Anaïs Nin (2017)

  She put away the type into boxes, removed the ink-stained smock, and checked her face in the wall mirror. It was after 10 p.m., and she was exhausted but didn’t want to go home to the empty apartment. Hugo was on business in Cuba; she was free for the night—that is, as free as she had the energy to be. She decided she would make an appearance at the party Hazel Guggenheim was giving. Hazel was one of the wealthy clients for whom Hugo handled investments. She was a painter of minute talent, and because her sister Peggy Guggenheim was an important collector, there were always some interesting artists at Hazel’s large parties. Anaïs splashed her face with freezing water in the utility sink and re-applied her makeup, carefully penciling the arched eyebrows, blackening her eyelids with kohl, drawing the bow on her upper lip in red, and adding rouge to her pallid cheeks. Her hair was still perfectly set from getting a perm at Elizabeth Arden’s Fifth Avenue salon. She raised her arms and stretched from side to side, took some deep breaths for bravery, added some aqua rhinestone earrings dug from her purse to bring out the color of her eyes, exchanged her flat work shoes for high heels, and slipped into her alluring Sabina persona. How many more times could she act the fascinating literary woman of mystery who dropped that her next novel was under consideration at Random House or Dutton or Viking or Ballantine or Farrar, Straus and Company, omitting that each publisher had actually already passed because her precious, surreal style was considered fusty and dated, like herself? Such thoughts left a clammy coating of fear on her skin and a cramp of anxiety under her ribs. So she thrust herself forward yet again to rush to a Manhattan party, drink champagne, flirt, and promote her glamorous, enigmatic image. The taxi dropped her at Hazel’s swanky apartment building, and after giving her name to the doorman, she saw, holding the elevator door for her, a lanky, handsome young man wearing a full-length white leather coat. Another showy, artistic homosexual, she chided herself; what else did she expect going to a party at Hazel’s? As they rode the elevator together, she examined her ink-stained fingers, then noticed the young man watching, and thrust her hands into the pockets of her wool coat. He removed his hands from his pockets, opening them to her, palms up. His fingertips were blacker than hers. “You’re a printer, too!” she exclaimed. “It’s my night job.” “What’s your day job?” “Unemployed actor. What’s yours?” “Unemployed writer.” They laughed, and she noticed his beautiful teeth and classic features. There was the quality of a dreamer, a sensitive face. If only he weren’t homosexual, she thought, unbidden, he could be the one. But that was ridiculous; he was too beautiful and stylish not to be gay.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  We all retain a vivid picture, from our earlier discussions, of Calandrino and the other people to whom I am obliged to refer in this story, so without any further ado I shall tell you that an aunt of Calandrino died, leaving him two hundred pounds in brass farthings. He accordingly started to talk of wanting to purchase a farm, and, acting as though he had ten thousand gold florins to spend, he approached every broker in Florence and entered into negotiations, all of which were abruptly broken off as soon as the price of the property was mentioned. When Bruno and Buffalmacco came to hear of this, they told him again and again that he would do far better to spend the money with them, having a riotous time, than to go buying land, as if he needed it to make mud pies. But far from bringing Calandrino round to their own point of view, they were unable to wring so much as a solitary meal out of him. One day, as they were grumbling to one another on the subject, they were joined by a fellow-painter of theirs, whose name was Nello,1 and the three of them decided they must find some way of stuffing themselves at Calandrino’s expense. So without dilly-dallying, having come to an agreement on the strategy to adopt, they lay in wait next morning as Calandrino was leaving his house, and before he had gone very far along the road, Nello came up to him and said: ‘Good morning, Calandrino.’ By way of answer, Calandrino said that he wished Nello a good morning and good year too, after which Nello, stepping back a little, began to look Calandrino intently in the face. ‘What are you staring at?’ said Calandrino. ‘Has anything happened to you overnight?’ said Nello. ‘You look odd, somehow.’ Calandrino was immediately thrown into a panic, and said: ‘Odd, you say? Lord! What do you think is the matter with me?’ ‘Oh, I don’t say you’re ill or anything,’ said Nello. ‘You look quite different, that’s all. But perhaps it’s merely my imagination.’ Nello then took his leave, and Calandrino, feeling very worried, but otherwise perfectly fit and well, proceeded on his way. However, Buffalmacco was lurking a little further along the road, and on seeing him leave Nello, he walked up to him, bade him good morning, and asked him whether he was feeling all right. ‘I’m not exactly sure,’ Calandrino replied. ‘I was talking to Nello just now, and he said I looked quite different. I wonder if there’s anything wrong with me?’ ‘Oh, it’s nothing,’ said Buffalmacco. ‘You just look half dead, that’s all.’ Calandrino was beginning to feel decidedly feverish, when all of a sudden Bruno appeared on the scene, and the first thing he said was: ‘What on earth’s the matter, Calandrino? You look just like a corpse. Are you feeling all right?’

• From The Decameron (1353)

  ‘How are we to do that?’ ‘I know exactly how to exorcize it,’ said his wife, ‘because the day before yesterday, when I went to the pardoning at Fiesole, I came across a hermitess, who as God is my witness, Gianni dear, is the most saintly woman you ever met, and when she saw how terrified I was of the werewolf, she taught me a fine and godly prayer, telling me that she had tried it many a time before becoming a recluse, and that it had always worked for her. Heaven knows that I would never have sufficient courage to try it out by myself, but now that you are here, I want us to go and exorcize it.’ Gianni thought this an excellent idea, and so they both got up out of bed and tiptoed over to the door, on the other side of which Federigo, his suspicions already aroused, was still waiting. On reaching the door, Gianni’s wife said to him: ‘As soon as I give you the word, have a good spit.’ 11 ‘Right you are,’ said Gianni. Then the lady began the exorcism, saying: ‘Werewolf, werewolf, black as any crow, you came here with your tail erect, keep it up and go; go into the garden, and look beneath the peach, and there you’ll find roast capons, and a score of eggs with each; raise the flask up to your lips, and take a swig of wine; then get you gone and hurt me not, nor even Gianni mine.’ And so saying she turned to her husband, and said: ‘Spit, Gianni.’ And Gianni spat. Federigo, who was standing outside and heard every syllable, had stopped feeling jealous, and despite all his frustration he had to hold his sides to prevent himself from bursting out laughing. And in a low murmur, as Gianni was doing his spitting, he groaned: ‘The teeth!’ When Monna Tessa had exorcized the werewolf three times in this same fashion, she and her husband returned to bed.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  The monk, albeit he had taken the greatest of pleasure and delight in the young woman’s company, suspected none the less that something was amiss, for it had seemed to him that he could hear the shuffling of feet in the corridor. He had therefore applied his eye to a tiny aperture, from which he had obtained an excellent view of the Abbot, standing there listening. He was thus well aware that the Abbot had had the opportunity of knowing that the girl was in his cell, and consequently he was very worried, for he knew he would be punished severely on account of all this. But without betraying his anxiety to the girl, he quickly ran his mind over various expedients to see if he could chance upon one that might do him some good, and hit upon a novel piece of mischief, which would have precisely the effect he was seeking. Pretending to the girl that he thought they had spent sufficient time together, he said to her: ‘I am just going to find a way of letting you out of here without your being seen. So stay here and make no sound till I return.’ He then emerged from his cell and, having locked the door, went straight to the Abbot’s room and handed him his key, this being the usual practice whenever any monk was going out. Then without so much as batting an eyelid, he said: ‘Sir, this morning I was not able to bring in all the faggots that were cut for me, so with your permission I should like to go to the wood and have them brought in.’ The Abbot, thinking that the monk knew nothing of the fact that he had seen him, was glad of the chance to find out more about the offence he had committed, and he gladly accepted the key and gave him his ready permission. After watching the monk go away, he began to consider whether it would be better for him to open the man’s cell in the presence of all the monks and let them bear witness to his disgrace, so that they would have no reason to complain against him later when he punished the fellow, or first to hear the girl’s account of the affair. On reflecting that she might be a respectable woman or the daughter of some man of influence, not wishing to make the mistake of putting such a lady to shame by displaying her to all of the monks, he decided he would first go and see who she was and then make up his mind. So he quietly made his way to the cell, opened the door, entered, and locked the door behind him. When she saw the Abbot coming in, the girl was terrified out of her wits, and began to weep for shame.

• From Apprenticed to Venus: My Secret Life with Anaïs Nin (2017)

  “That’s true.” Wistfully, she lowered her delicate chin. Then she looked up and set her beryl eyes on me. “Actually, that is where the story you need to understand begins: in 1947, probably before you were born.” I quickly calculated. “No, I was born. I was three years old.” She took a deep breath, touched my hand lightly, and began the story of her search for passion. She may not have been able to create a plot in her novels, but in person, with her soft, lilting voice, she was as captivating as Scheherazade, dropping one veil, only to entice with another. CHAPTER 6 Greenwich Village, New York, 1947 ANAÏS AT FORTY-FOUR, SHE WAS MAD for sex and wild with anxiety. Hugo had given her money to hire someone to set the type for Gemor Press, and she’d hired Gonzolo Mores, one of her impoverished Paris lovers who had followed her to the US. For a time, she was having sex with Gonzolo in the Village studio she kept for him, and with Henry Miller, who had also followed her to New York, and with a half dozen other men, sometimes five different men in a day—younger ones, older ones, soldiers and film directors, men she met at parties, some straight, some not. She paused only when bedridden with bouts of exhaustion. Her only anchor in this tumultuous period was the tangible work of handprinting her novels. Gonzolo, after a burst of energy, had fallen back on his old habit of drinking wine before noon, and so Anaïs had taken over his task of positioning the type on the old clamshell press. One freezing winter night, she was working alone in the East Village studio where the hand press was housed. Wrapped in her winter coat with a dirty printer’s smock covering it, she locked in letters of Bernhard Gothic Light. Her fingers were blackened from inking the plate. Her back ached from working the pedal. Yet she loved this work for the respite it gave from her abiding restlessness. She had come to the point where she felt she would have to leave both Hugo and the United States. She had not been able to flower as a woman or as a writer in New York as she had in Paris. She was dissipating her time and her talent. Her relationship with Hugo had become a formality of duty and appearance, and she wanted out of its imprisonment. Yet she did not know how she could get Hugo to live without her; nor, when she was honest with herself, how she would get by without him, financially or emotionally.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Still feeling apprehensive on her own account, the woman was only too ready to obey him, and promptly did as she was told. And so, after a good deal of coaxing, Spinelloccio’s wife, hearing that her husband would not be returning home for breakfast, was persuaded by Zeppa’s wife to come and join them. As soon as she set foot inside the house, Zeppa made a great fuss of her and took her tenderly by the hand. Then, having ordered his wife, in a low whisper, to go along to the kitchen, he led the other woman off into the bedroom, and no sooner had they crossed the threshold than he turned round and locked the door on the inside. When she saw him locking the door, the woman said: ‘Come now, Zeppa, what is the meaning of this? Was this, then, your reason for inviting me here? I thought you loved Spinelloccio as a brother, I thought you were his loyal friend.’ Holding her firmly round the waist, Zeppa guided her closer to the chest in which her husband was confined, and said to her: ‘Before you go complaining, my dear, listen to what I have to say to you. I loved Spinelloccio as a brother, and I still do, but yesterday I discovered, without his knowing it, that my trust in him had come to this, that he makes love just as freely to my wife as he does to you. Now, because I love him, the only revenge I propose to take is one that exactly matches the offence. He has possessed my wife, and I intend to possess you. If you refuse to cooperate, I shall certainly catch him out sooner or later, and since I have no intention of allowing his offence to go unpunished, I shall deal with him in such a way as to make both of your lives a perpetual misery.’ Having listened to Zeppa’s story and questioned him closely about it, the woman was convinced that he was telling the truth, and she said: ‘My dear Zeppa, if I have to bear the brunt of your revenge, so be it; but only if you will see that your wife harbours no resentment against me over this deed we are obliged to perform, just as I myself, in spite of what she has done to me, intend to harbour none against her.’ To which Zeppa replied: ‘I shall certainly see to that; and what’s more, I shall present you with as fair and precious a jewel as any you possess.’ So saying, he took her in his arms and began to kiss her; and having laid her on the chest in which her husband was imprisoned, he sported with her upon it to his heart’s content, and she with him.

• From Apprenticed to Venus: My Secret Life with Anaïs Nin (2017)

  She had told herself that she was doing this fling as much for her marriage as for herself. If she did not allow Sabina these excursions, she would not be able to stay in her marriage with Hugo. She’d told herself to keep this affair light. As long as she did not let herself fall in love with Rupert, she would be all right. Her marriage would be all right. But she had fallen in love with Rupert. Driving through the last stretch of fragrant orange groves on the way to Los Angeles, Rupert broke a long silence by asking, “Before you and your husband decided on divorce, did you want to have children?” Her stomach somersaulted. “In the beginning we both thought we would have children,” she answered, “but our life was so busy, it didn’t seem like a good idea.” “I want children,” Rupert announced. She thought she had worried about everything, but she hadn’t anticipated this. “I thought you wanted a life of adventure and freedom. That’s why you are choosing forestry.” “I do, but I’m conflicted because I also want a home and a family. I want life to be in harmony like music, and you can’t have music without a stable foundation.” She was in turmoil. At forty-four she might still bear him a child but could she take care of one? No, she could not imagine herself in that role now. They fell into silence again, inhaling the sweet scent of blossoming orange trees. CHAPTER 7 Malibu, California, 1964 TRISTINE THE RING OF THE PHONE in Renate’s living room brought Anaïs out of her narrative. She lunged for the receiver but changed her mind. “Hurry, Tristine, we have to leave. We don’t want Ronnie or Peter to find us here.” I didn’t understand why but quickly gathered my stuff, and we exited through the carport door. In front of our side-by-side cars, both with badly dented fenders, Anaïs gave me a kiss on each cheek. Then she wrapped her arms around me in a hug that held the warmth I’d longed for. “Do you think I could follow you back to where the highway inclines to Sunset?” she asked. “I have a terrible sense of direction and I’m afraid of missing the exit.” Another similarity between Anaïs and me, I noted. I got lost easily, too, though I chose not to tell her because I could manage the Pacific Coast Highway to Sunset and I wanted her to trust in me.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  But all their assistance was unavailing, because the good man, who was already advanced in years and had lived a disordered existence, was reported by his doctors to be going each day from bad to worse, like one who was suffering from a fatal illness. The two brothers were filled with alarm, and one day, alongside the room in which Ser Ciappelletto was lying, they began talking together. ‘What are we to do about the fellow?’ said one to the other. ‘We’ve landed ourselves in a fine mess on his account, because to turn him away from our house in his present condition would arouse a lot of adverse comment and show us to be seriously lacking in common sense. What would people say if they suddenly saw us evicting a dying man after giving him hospitality in the first place, and taking so much trouble to have him nursed and waited upon, when he couldn’t possibly have done anything to offend us? On the other hand, he has led such a wicked life that he will never be willing to make his confession or receive the sacraments of the Church; and if he dies unconfessed, no church will want to accept his body and he’ll be flung into the moat like a dog. 3 But even if he makes his confession, his sins are so many and so appalling that the same thing will happen, because there will be neither friar nor priest who is either willing or able to give him absolution; in which case, since he will not have been absolved, he will be flung into the moat just the same. And when the townspeople see what has happened, they’ll create a commotion, not only because of our profession which they consider iniquitous and never cease to condemn, but also because they long to get their hands on our money, and they will go about shouting: “Away with these Lombard dogs 4 that the Church refuses to accept”; and they’ll come running to our lodgings and perhaps, not content with stealing our goods, they’ll take away our lives into the bargain. So we shall be in a pretty fix either way, if this fellow dies.’ Ser Ciappelletto, who as we have said was lying near the place where they were talking, heard everything they were saying about him, for he was sharp of hearing, as invalids invariably are. So he called them in to him, and said: ‘I don’t want you to worry in the slightest on my account, nor to fear that I will cause you to suffer any harm. I heard what you were saying about me and I agree entirely that what you predict will actually come to pass, if matters take the course you anticipate; but they will do nothing of the kind. I have done our good Lord so many injuries whilst I lived, that to do Him another now that I am dying will be neither here nor there.

• From Apprenticed to Venus: My Secret Life with Anaïs Nin (2017)

  I met Anaïs again at Renate’s house, though Renate wasn’t there. I presented the blank letterhead protected in a folder. Her reaction was gratifying. “You did brilliantly!” We got right down to her dictation. “You can address the letter to me by my pen name, Anaïs Nin, Apt. 14B, 4 Washington Square, New York.” That wasn’t her address when I’d met her. I guessed she’d moved after the divorce, but still kept a place in the city. “I’ll be there in two weeks,” she continued. “The letter should arrive before I do. It is an invitation for me to speak at your college.” “From my English department?” “Yes.” “Did they invite you?” “No, but I need to have West Coast invitations for the East Coast colleges to offer me engagements.” “Oh.” So I was writing a pretend invitation for her to show around. “The letter should come from you on behalf of the English department. You should say they are offering me an honorarium of $200.” “Alright,” I said uncertainly. “It just needs to seem professional. You should apologize that the college does not have the money to pay for accommodations, but that I will be welcome to stay with you, as usual, for as long as I wish in your guest room.” “I don’t have a guest room! I mean, you could stay with me if you need to, but I only have a single. I don’t think you would be very comfortable.” “Oh, don’t worry, I’ll never stay with you. But it’s customary to offer accommodations.” I didn’t understand what was going on. I rubbed my forefinger over my lower lip as I do when I’m anxious. “Oh, never mind. This isn’t going to work.” She lowered my hand gently and held it with her own surprisingly cool hand. “I’m sorry. Forget all this.” “No! I’ll have the letter for you in two days.” “Excellent! Why don’t we meet next time at the library downtown, so you don’t have to drive all the way out here again. The Central Library is near your college, isn’t it?” We made the arrangements and, hoping to get her to return to her love story with Rupert, I said, “You told me Rupert wanted to have children. You never had a child, did you?” “No, do you want children?” “No.” “Why not?” “Until you, the only women I’ve known who were happy were my Aunt Anne and my godmother Lenore, and neither of them had a kid.” “Renate is happy and she has a son,” Anaïs commented, but I wasn’t convinced. Studying me, she said, “I heard a lecture once by Marie Von Franz, who was a student of Carl Jung’s, about the puella aeterna, the archetype of the eternal ingénue.”

• From Apprenticed to Venus: My Secret Life with Anaïs Nin (2017)

  There were other problems in my relationship with Philip that I would have liked to present to Anaïs as she and I stood with our arms around each other’s waists, looking at the stars now twinkling above the hillside lights. But I realized it was all too complex, and my thoughts too jumbled, for her to deal with in the middle of a movie being shot about her. So I tried to keep my question simple: Should I give up the job offer and stay with Philip, who was unwilling to come with me? Or should I go so I could respect myself and likely lose him entirely? In the past, whenever I’d presented Anaïs with one of my emotional puzzles, she’d close her eyes as if about to plunge underwater. After several moments with her lids shut, she’d emerge with a brilliant insight that would solve the problem. It might be a revelation about one’s underlying motivations that, once recognized, brought clarity; or she might offer a metaphor that contained a nugget of wisdom. But Anaïs didn’t close her eyes and consider. She pivoted me, her arm around my waist, so that instead of looking out at the gleaming reservoir, we faced her brightly lit house. Together we watched a tableau through the glass doors as my friends socialized animatedly. Anaïs murmured in sympathy, “Can’t you ask the university for more time?” “I did. The chair said yes and offered me more money because he thought I was being a tough negotiator.” Her half laugh came from low in her throat, but she tried to be encouraging. “The Kinsey Institute is there, you know.” I snapped, “That has nothing to do with what I’d be doing there! I’m not a sexologist.” Immediately, I regretted my tone. “Of course not.” She sighed. “I just thought because you did that fascinating research with the women in your tent …” “I have to get those tapes back.” “I told you, I’ll return them!” Retreating in the face of her displeasure, I tried to pull her attention back to my problem. “Renate says whatever choice I make will be the right one, but I know whatever choice I make will be the wrong one.” She turned to me, her aquamarine eyes holding mine. “The problem isn’t your ambivalence, Tristine. It’s that you freeze instead of flowing forward.” She raised her right arm like a ballerina and let it glide sideways, suggesting a smoothly flowing river. “But how do I flow forward when I have to choose one path and I can’t?” I could hear panic in my voice. She offered an enigmatic smile. “I followed both paths until the way became clear.” She had managed to flow forward on two paths—to live in two places at once, to be the wife of two men at once—for seventeen years. But I couldn’t do that. Come January, I either went to Indiana by myself or stayed in Los Angeles with Philip.

• From Apprenticed to Venus: My Secret Life with Anaïs Nin (2017)

  “You can. I specialize in portraits of people alongside their animal spirit.” “And I remind you of a cormorant?” “Always fishing.” It sounded like a reprimand. As Renate studied me, I tried not to look fishy. Finally she said, “Maybe you will be able to do a service for Anaïs.” “A service? I would. I would love to.” “Depending on how well you can be trusted,” she said, watching something behind me. “Now you know quite a few secrets. Let’s see how well you keep them.” “I will,” I promised. “I won’t mention anything to anyone about you being married to a famous football player. Or that Ian Hugo is Hugo Guiler.” Damn, now I couldn’t tell my godmother. “Or what goes on at Holiday House.” Renate nodded in the direction behind me. “Be discreet when you turn around.” “I’ll go to the ladies’ room.” As I rose and turned, I saw a man seated two tables away who looked so much like Frank Sinatra it had to be him! He was clasping hands with a blond woman who had her back to me. When I returned from the bathroom, they had left—probably to use one of the apartments below. I saw that Renate was on the phone at the hostess’s desk. I’d been trying to think who she reminded me of, and now it dawned on me: it was Vampira, the local TV emcee of midnight horror films. Renate had the same long black hair and witchy beauty. As I approached, she put down the receiver. “You’re invited to my house to see my paintings Wednesday next.” CHAPTER 5 Malibu, California, 1964 AS MY BUICK BUMPED ALONG the dirt road on the east side of Pacific Coast Highway, I understood how Renate could afford to live in Malibu on a hostess’s salary. There were no ocean views on this side. Her house sat in the gloom on a barren, undeveloped expanse of scrubby chaparral and tilted telephone poles. The carport under Renate’s characterless stucco was empty. Had she forgotten our appointment? I parked in the carport and walked around the house to find an entry door. I saw a faded red Volkswagen parked at the rear of the house but could find no entry other than the one under the carport, so I knocked on it. Renate welcomed me and proudly showed me around. This was all hers, paid for with her wages. “My ex-husband was a doctor, but when I left him, all I took was my son and my freedom.” Everything in her house looked as if it had been crafted by a class of third graders told to finish their projects before the bell rang. The spiral ladder leading to a sleeping loft seemed so narrow only a monkey could climb it. The huge velvet pillows that substituted for a couch had been basted with thick white thread that had never been removed. Renate’s unfinished canvases balanced on off-kilter, homemade easels.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  SEVENTH STORY Talano d’Imolese dreams that his wife is savaged all about the throat and the face by a wolf, and tells her to take care; but she ignores his warning, and the dream comes true. Panfilo’s story being now at an end, the woman’s presence of mind was applauded by one and all, after which the queen called upon Pampinea to tell hers, and she began as follows: Delectable ladies, we have talked on previous occasions 1 about the truths embodied in dreams, which many of us refuse to take seriously. But even though this topic has already been aired, I am determined to tell you a pithy little tale showing what happened not long ago to a neighbour of mine through ignoring a dream of her husband’s in which she appeared. I don’t know whether you were ever acquainted with Talano d’Imolese, 2 but he was a person of high repute, and was married to a young woman called Margarita, who, though exceedingly beautiful, was the most argumentative, disagreeable and self-willed creature on God’s earth, for she would never heed other people’s advice and regarded everyone but herself as an incompetent fool. This made life very difficult for Talano, but since he had no choice in the matter, he bore it all philosophically. Now one night, when Talano happened to be staying with this wife of his at one of their country estates, he dreamt that he saw her wandering through some very beautiful woods, which were situated not far away from the house. As he watched, an enormous and ferocious wolf seemed to emerge from a corner of the woods and hurl itself at Margarita’s throat, dragging her to the ground. She struggled to free herself, screaming for help, and when at length she managed to escape from its clutches, the whole of her throat and face appeared to be torn to ribbons. So when Talano got up next morning, he said to his wife: ‘Woman, your cussedness has been the bane of my life since the day we were married; but all the same I should be sorry if you came to any harm, and therefore, if you’ll take my advice, you won’t venture forth from the house today.’ When she asked him the reason, he told her about his dream, whereupon she tossed her head in the air and said: ‘Evil wishes beget evil dreams. You pretend to be very anxious for my safety, but you only dream these horrid things about me because you’d like to see them happen. You may rest assured that I shall never give you the satisfaction of seeing me suffer any such fate as the one you describe, whether on this day or any other.’ ‘I knew you would say that,’ said Talano. ‘A mangy dog never thanks you for combing its pelt. But you may think whatever you like.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Hence I would be glad if you would tell me which of the three laws, whether the Jewish, the Saracen, or the Christian, you deem to be truly authentic.’ The Jew, who was indeed a wise man, realized all too well that Saladin was aiming to trip him up with the intention of picking a quarrel with him, and that if he were to praise any of the three more than the others, the Sultan would achieve his object. He therefore had need of a reply that would save him from falling into the trap, and having sharpened his wits, in no time at all he was ready with his answer. ‘My lord,’ he said, ‘your question is a very good one, and in order to explain my views on the subject, I must ask you to listen to the following little story: ‘Unless I am mistaken, I recall having frequently heard that there was once a great and wealthy man who, apart from the other fine jewels contained in his treasury, possessed a most precious and beautiful ring. Because of its value and beauty, he wanted to do it the honour of leaving it in perpetuity to his descendants, and so he announced that he would bequeath the ring to one of his sons, and that whichever of them should be found to have it in his keeping, this man was to be looked upon as his heir, and the others were to honour and respect him as the head of the family. ‘The man to whom he left the ring, having made a similar provision regarding his own descendants, followed the example set by his predecessor. To cut a long story short, the ring was handed down through many generations till it finally came to rest in the hands of a man who had three most splendid and virtuous sons who were very obedient to their father, and he loved all three of them equally. Each of the three young men, being aware of the tradition concerning the ring, was eager to take precedence over the others, and they all did their utmost to persuade the father, who was now an old man, to leave them the ring when he died. ‘The good man, who loved all three and was unable to decide which of them should inherit the ring, resolved, having promised it to each, to try and please them all. So he secretly commissioned a master-craftsman to make two more rings, which were so like the first that even the man who had made them could barely distinguish them from the original. And when he was dying, he took each of his sons aside in turn, and gave one ring to each. ‘After their father’s death, they all desired to succeed to his title and estate, and each man denied the claims of the others, producing his ring to prove his case.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  FOURTH DAY Here begins the Fourth Day, wherein, under the rule of Filo-strato, the discussion turns upon those whose love ended unhappily . Dearest ladies, both from what I have heard on the lips of the wise, and from what I have frequently read and observed for myself, I always assumed that only lofty towers and the highest summits of trees could be assailed by Envy’s fiery and impetuous blast; 1 but I find that I was mistaken. In the course of my lifelong efforts to escape the fierce onslaught of those turbulent winds, I have always made a point of going quietly and unseen about my affairs, not only keeping to the lowlands but occasionally directing my steps through the deepest of deep valleys. This can very easily be confirmed by anyone casting an eye over these little stories of mine, which bear no title 2 and which I have written, not only in the Florentine vernacular and in prose, but in the most homely and unassuming style 3 it is possible to imagine. Yet in spite of all this, I have been unable to avoid being violently shaken and almost uprooted by those very winds, and was nearly torn to pieces by envy. And thus I can most readily appreciate the truth of the wise men’s saying, that in the affairs of this world, poverty alone is without envy. 4 Judicious ladies, there are those who have said, after reading these tales, that I am altogether too fond of you, that it is unseemly for me to take so much delight in entertaining and consoling you, and, what is apparently worse, in singing your praises as I do. Others, laying claim to greater profundity, have said that it is not good for a man of my age to engage in such pursuits as discussing the ways of women and providing for their pleasure. And others, showing deep concern for my renown, say that I would be better advised to remain with the Muses in Parnassus, than to fritter away my time in your company. Moreover, there are those who, prompted more by spitefulness than common sense, have said that I would be better employed in earning myself a good meal than in going hungry for the sake of producing nonsense of this sort. And finally there are those who, in order to belittle my efforts, endeavour to prove that my versions of the stories I have told are not consistent with the facts. By gusts of such a kind as these, then, by teeth thus sharp and cruel, distinguished ladies, am I buffeted, battered, and pierced to the very quick whilst I soldier on in your service. As God is my witness, I take it all calmly and coolly; and though I need no one but you to defend me, I do not intend, all the same, to spare my own energies.

• From Waking the Tiger: Healing Trauma (1997)

  Together, these components form the core of the traumatic reaction. They are the first to appear when a traumatic event occurs. Throughout our lives, we have all experienced these as normal responses. However, when they occur together over an extended period of time, they are an almost certain indication that we have experienced an event that has left us with unresolved traumatic residue. When we learn to recognize these four components of the traumatic reaction, we are well on our way to recognizing trauma. All other symptoms develop from these four if the defensive energy mobilized to respond to a traumatic event is not discharged or integrated within a few days, weeks, or months following the experience. Hyperarousal During times of conflict or stress, most people experience symptoms such as increased heartbeat and breathing, agitation, difficulty in sleeping, tension, muscular jitteriness, racing thoughts, or perhaps an anxiety attack. Though not always indicative of traumatic symptoms, these signs are usually due to some form of hyperarousal. If hyperarousal, constriction, dissociation, and a sense of helplessness form the core of the traumatic reaction, then hyperarousal is the seed in that core. If you reflect back on the previous exercise, you will realize that it invoked at least a mild version of hyperarousal. Whenever this heightened internal arousal occurs, it is primarily an indication that the body is summoning its energetic resources to mobilize against a potential threat. When the situation is serious enough to threaten the organism’s very survival, the amount of energy mobilized is much higher than that mobilized for any other situation in our lives. Unfortunately, even when we know that we need to discharge the aroused energy, doing so is not always easy. Like many instinctual processes, hyperarousal cannot be voluntarily controlled. The following exercise is a simple way to experientially confirm this. Exercise During the three scenarios you experienced in the last exercise, did you imagine or create the responses in your body or were they produced by your body as an involuntary response to the scenarios you envisioned? In other words, did you make them happen or did they happen on their own? Now attempt to deliberately make your body have such a response without envisioning a threatening scenario. Use a direct approach and see if you can make your body produce responses similar to those you experienced in the three scenario s In your eyes. In your posture. In your muscles. In your level of arousal. Now try all the parts of the experience together at the same time. When you compare your experience in this exercise to your experience in the earlier one, how is it similar?

• From The Decameron (1353)

  ‘Ah, what a terrible fate! What am I to do? How am I to produce this infant? Where will it come out? This woman’s going to be the death of me now, with her insatiable lust, I can see that. May God make her as miserable as I desire to be happy. I swear that if I were fit and strong, which is far from being the case, I should get up from this bed and break every bone in her body. It serves me right, though; I should never have allowed her to lie on top: but if I ever get out of this alive, she certainly won’t do it again, even if she’s dying of frustration.’ Bruno and Buffalmacco and Nello were so vastly amused by Calandrino’s outburst that it was all they could do to keep a straight face, although Master Simone guffawed so heartily that all his teeth could have been pulled out one after another. At length, however, on being urged and entreated by Calandrino for advice and assistance, the doctor said: ‘Now there’s no cause for alarm, Calandrino. By the grace of God we’ve diagnosed the trouble early enough for me to cure you quite easily in a matter of a few days. But it’s going to cost you a pretty penny.’ ‘Get on with it then, doctor, for the love of God,’ said Calandrino. ‘I have two hundred pounds here with which I was going to buy a farm, but you can take the whole lot if necessary, provided I don’t have to bear this child. I simply don’t know how I could manage it, when I think of the great hullabaloo women make when they are having babies, even though they have plenty of room for the purpose. If I had all that pain to contend with, I honestly think I should die before I ever produced any child.’ ‘Just leave everything to me,’ said the doctor. ‘I shall prescribe a certain medicine for you, a distilled liquid that is most effective in cases of this sort, and highly agreeable to the palate, which will clear everything up in three days and leave you feeling fit as a fiddle. But in future you must be more sensible and desist from these foolish antics. Now in order to prepare this medicine, we shall need three brace of good fat capons, and you must give five pounds in small change to Bruno and the others, so that they can purchase the remaining ingredients we require. See that everything is brought round to my surgery, and tomorrow morning I shall send you the distilled beverage, which you are to start drinking at once, a good big glassful at a time.’ ‘Whatever you say, doctor,’ said Calandrino. And handing over five pounds to Bruno, together with the money for the three brace of capons, he asked him to purchase the things he needed, apologizing for putting him to so much trouble.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Mithridanes paused for some little time before replying, but eventually decided to take him into his confidence. After much beating about the bush he came to the point; and having sworn him to secrecy he requested his help and advice, revealing exactly who he was, why he was there, and what had prompted him to come. On hearing Mithridanes speak, and learning of his cruel resolve, Nathan was extremely perturbed. But he was not deficient in courage, and scarcely paused for a moment before replying, without batting an eyelid: ‘Your father was a man of excellent worth, Mithridanes, and you are clearly intent upon following his example by this lofty enterprise of yours, wherein you extend a generous hand to all who come to you. Moreover, I warmly commend your envy of Nathan, for if this form of jealousy were more widespread, the world, which is very miserly, would soon become a better place to live in. I shall certainly keep your intentions a secret, but rather than render you any great assistance, I can offer you some useful advice, which is this. Some half a mile from where we stand, you can see a copse where practically every morning Nathan goes for a long walk, entirely alone; it will be a simple matter for you to find him there and deal with him as you please. But if you kill him, and wish to make good your escape, you must leave the copse, not by the way you entered, but along the path you see over there to the left, for although it is a little more difficult, it will lead you home by a shorter and safer route.’ Having imparted this information to Mithridanes, Nathan took his leave, and Mithridanes secretly sent word to his companions, who had likewise found lodging in the palace, about where they were to wait for him on the following day. Meanwhile Nathan had no misgivings about the advice he had offered, and when the next day came, not having changed his mind in the slightest, he set off alone for the copse to meet his doom. Mithridanes had no other weapons but a sword and a bow, and as soon as he had risen he girded them on, mounted his horse, and rode over to the copse, where from some distance away he espied the solitary figure of Nathan sauntering among the trees. He galloped towards him, but being resolved to see his face and hear him speak before attacking him, he seized him by the turban he was wearing and exclaimed: ‘Greybeard, your hour has come!’ By way of answer, all that Nathan said was: ‘In that case I have only myself to blame.’

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  Violet Peacock, who was now a V.A.D. with a very imposing Red Cross on her apron, occasionally managed to catch Stephen at home, and then would come reams of tiresome gossip. Sometimes she would bring her over-fed children along, she was stuffing them up like capons. By fair means or foul Violet always managed to obtain illicit cream for her nursery—she was one of those mothers who reacted to the war by wishing to kill off the useless aged. ‘What’s the good of them? Eating up the food of the nation!’ she would say, ‘I’m going all out on the young, they’ll be needed to breed from.’ She was very extreme, her perspective had been upset by the air raids. Raids frightened her as did the thought of starvation, and when frightened she was apt to grow rather sadistic, so that now she would want to rush off and inspect every ruin left by the German marauders. She had also been the first to applaud the dreadful descent of a burning Zeppelin. She bored Stephen intensely with her ceaseless prattle about Alec, who was one of London’s defenders, about Roger, who had got the Military Cross and was just on the eve of becoming a major, about the wounded whose faces she sponged every morning, and who seemed so pathetically grateful. From Morton came occasional letters for Puddle; they were more in the nature of reports now these letters. Anna had such and such a number of cases; the gardeners had been replaced by young women; Mr. Percival was proving very devoted, he and Anna were holding the estate well together; Williams had been seriously ill with pneumonia. Then a long list of humble names from the farms, from among Anna’s staff or from cottage homesteads, together with those from such houses as Morton—for the rich and the poor were in death united. Stephen would read that long list of names, so many of which she had known since her childhood, and would realize that the stark arm of war had struck deep at the quiet heart of the Midlands. CHAPTER 36 1 T here is something that mankind can never destroy in spite of an unreasoning will to destruction, and this is its own idealism, that integral part of its very being. The ageing and the cynical may make wars, but the young and the idealistic must fight them, and thus there are bound to come quick reactions, blind impulses not always comprehended. Men will curse as they kill, yet accomplish deeds of self-sacrifice, giving their lives for others; poets will write with their pens dipped in blood, yet will write not of death but of life eternal; strong and courteous friendships will be born, to endure in the face of enmity and destruction.